


The Life of the Party

by Gigi_Sinclair



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Post-Canon, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-12
Updated: 2017-01-18
Packaged: 2018-09-17 02:43:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9300551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gigi_Sinclair/pseuds/Gigi_Sinclair
Summary: Seven Grand Prix Final banquets, seven memorable moments for Christophe Giacometti.





	1. First Year

Christophe spends most of the meal staring at him from across the banquet room. 

Although he's just skated in his first ever Grand Prix Final, and finished in a respectable, if not stellar, fourth place, Chris was nowhere near this nervous on the ice. Looking at the ethereally beautiful Victor Nikiforov, sitting beside his coach, eating watercress and cucumber salad like he's a mortal human being, makes Chris' heart hammer and his palms sweat around his cutlery. 

He spoke to Victor briefly when they both competed at Skate Canada, earlier in the season. After they climbed down from the podium, Chris with his bronze medal and Victor, of course, with gold, Chris said, “Do you remember me?” and Victor replied, “Naturally,” a blank look on his face. 

“You gave me a flower,” Chris went on, feeling stupid and childish. He's twenty-one, a late bloomer in the figure skating world. Victor is only two years older, but he's a man. No, not a man. A god. “You encouraged me. You're the reason I'm here.” 

“No,” Victor replied, firmly. He put a hand on Chris' shoulder, the warmth of his body seeping through Chris' thin costume. Chris' mouth went dry. “ _You're_ the reason you're here. Never forget that.” His words were so emphatic, his big eyes so full of emotion, Chris wanted to kiss him. He didn't. Victor was whisked away by his scary old coach, and Chris hasn't spoken to him since. 

Chris longs to go up to him now, but he needs a few doses of liquid courage for that. As Chris downs his third glass of champagne, Victor's coach-cum-personal-gargoyle takes out his mobile phone. The frown that seems perpetually etched on his face grows deeper as he puts the phone to his ear. Chris can't hear what he's saying, he probably wouldn't understand it anyway, but he catches the word “Lilia” a couple of times. The coach storms away, still talking, and Chris sees his opportunity. 

“Congratulations,” he says, as he slips into the newly vacated seat beside Victor. “Again.”

“You did well, Christophe,” Victor replies. Hearing his name from that mouth his nearly enough to make Chris spontaneously orgasm. He bites the inside of his cheek and tries to control himself, as Victor says, generously, “I think I will be sharing the podium with you next year.” 

“I would be honoured if that happened." That's an understatement.

Victor recently cut his hair. There was an outcry about it from his fans, but Chris likes it this way. He says so, and Victor blushes prettily. If Chris wasn't lost before, he certainly is now. 

“It's a big change,” Victor admits. “But sometimes, in life, one needs to change to survive.”

“I agree, completely.” 

“For example,” Victor goes on, his eyes on Chris', “I recently decided to leave my lover. A significant change, but one I have not regretted.” Victor extends a slim, pale hand, resting on Chris' thigh beneath the table. “Although I do miss one thing about being in a relationship.” 

A grin spreads across Chris' face. He probably looks like a lunatic, but he can't help himself. “Maybe I can help,” he suggests, and Victor squeezes gently. 

***

“Oh my God, Victor, I want to fucking worship you.” The words slip out as he and Victor hit the bed, the mattress creaking beneath them. Chris' jacket and tie are already off, flung into the wilds of the hotel bedroom, and he's working on his shirt buttons. Victor is more efficient. He was bare to the waist the moment the door shut behind them. 

“No, no. Don't worship me,” Victor protests, pulling Chris down on top of him. He takes Chris' shirt in both hands, and any remaining buttons are lost as Victor rips it off. “Too many people worship me, Chris.” Nevertheless, Chris bends and begins to kiss down Victor's milky skin, sucking little hickeys here and there as he works his way toward Victor's waistband. “I want you to fuck me.” Victor's long fingers twist almost painfully into Chris' short hair. 

“I can do that,” Chris promises, and he reaches for Victor's belt. 

Chris, always hopeful, carries a condom and a small packet of lube wherever he goes. Even in this, Victor surpasses him. At the pivotal moment, Victor reaches into a drawer in the bedside table to produce a large box of condoms and a full-sized squeeze bottle of lube. Chris appreciates both his forward thinking and his optimism. 

They fuck twice, the first time with Victor on his back, his beautifully flexible legs over Chris' shoulders. The second time, Victor clambers on top and rides Chris' cock like he's going for another gold medal. While Chris is still gasping from his second orgasm, Victor sits up from where he'd collapsed onto Chris' chest and says, “I'm sorry, I'm being terribly selfish.” 

“Selfish?” Chris' voice comes out as a squeak. “I don't think you...”

Victor's hand snakes around, landing on Chris' admittedly well-sculpted backside. He traces a finger down the cleft, and Chris jerks in his arms. “Or perhaps you don't care to be on that end of things?” 

Chris laughs. Fuck the gold medal, this is the best Grand Prix Final result he's ever going to get. “Oh, I care, all right. But I can't go again.”

Victor's podium-ready smile turns into something darker, more sultry. “We'll see,” he says, and he reaches for the lube. 

Victor is right. Chris doesn't know why he ever doubted him. Clearly, a man who travels with dozens of condoms and an industrial-sized container of lube has been around the block, so to speak. Victor fingers Chris to an unprecedented third orgasm, seemingly without effort. It doesn't produce much, physically, but the sensation is so incredible, Chris is pretty sure he's going to die. At this point, he doesn't even mind, as long as the headlines read: _Fourth-place GPF skater Christophe Giacometti fucked to death by Victor fucking Nikiforov. Yes, THE Victor fucking Nikiforov._ In those words. 

They pass out, afterward, Chris' arm across Victor's body and Victor's ass against his groin. When Chris wakes up hours later, his phone is shrieking and he's alone in bed. 

It's Victor's room, but as Chris looks around blearily, it seems like all of Victor's things are gone. Chris' clothes remain, neatly folded on the bedside table, his phone at their side. Glancing down, Chris sees a small sheet of hotel stationery on top of the stack of clothes. _Thanks for a great time_ , he reads. _See you next season. V. xx_

Chris smiles to himself, clutching the note like the devoted fan he is. He allows himself to savour the moment, then breathes deeply, answers the insistent phone and listens to his coach demand just where the fuck Chris is and does he know he's got twenty minutes to get his ass to the airport?


	2. Second Year

“I really don't usually do this,” the man says, for the hundredth time, and Chris can't ignore it any longer. He pulls his mouth off Georgi Popovich's moderately attractive cock and says, “You know, if you keep saying that, I might start to get insulted.” 

Georgi looks down. The banquet hall bathroom is spotlessly clean, but Chris still didn't get on his knees. He has standards. He's sitting on the toilet with Georgi standing in front of him, pants around his delicate Russian ankles. 

“Sorry,” Georgi grunts. “I just mean, I'm not like, you know...”

“Like me?” Chris says, just to see Georgi's cheeks turn red. He's fairly pretty and very closeted. Chris usually stays far away from guys like that—he's twenty-two, he learned that lesson years ago—but he wants to celebrate his Grand Prix Final silver medal in style, and nobody else seemed immediately available.

“No! I mean, yes, but no, I didn't mean that. I meant, I'm not like Victor.” 

“Honey, nobody is.” 

Chris didn't come to the banquet expecting to fuck, or be fucked by, Victor again. The way the schedules worked out, they hadn't seen each other at all this season. When the Grand Prix Final results came in, Victor broke away from his crowd of fawning flunkies to throw his arms around Chris and say, “I knew you could do it!” It made Chris' stomach flip, with excitement and with hope, but still, he had no expectations. 

Which was just as well. As Chris was finishing his dessert, Victor came up beside him and kissed him on both cheeks. “You were amazing, Chris.” He smiled, and Chris couldn't help but imagine those words in a very different context. “I'm going to have to stay on my toes next season, I can tell.” 

“I'm happy to be right behind you, darling,” Chris replied. It was an automatic response, the kind of flirtatious innuendo he spewed without even thinking about it. Victor looked at him and, for a moment, Chris wondered if he was insulted, or worse yet, didn't get it. But then Victor laughed, so loudly the people at the next table looked over at them. 

“Can I show you something?” Victor asked, leaning close enough for Chris to smell him, his soap and shampoo and some heavy Russian aftershave that would normally make Chris gag, but which was absolutely divine on Victor. Then again, Chris thought, Victor could make fetid rubbish, or even Axe body spray, smell divine. 

“Of course,” Chris said. Victor was already pulling out his phone. He thumbed it on. With a quick glance around, he held it up so Chris could see a photo of a dark-haired man, slightly Neanderthal-like with a square jaw and a low forehead. 

“This is my lover,” Victor whispered. “Don't tell Yakov, he forbade me from seeing him. We're having a secret affair. Isn't it romantic?” 

“It's...” It was something all right. “Who is he?” 

“His name's Dmitri. He plays hockey.” 

“I would never have guessed.” 

“He's so handsome.” Victor's face was a picture of doting bliss. “Don't you think so?” 

Chris didn't hesitate. “He's absolutely gorgeous.” 

“I knew you would agree with me!” Victor reached out, clasping Chris' hand in his. “We should be friends, Chris, don't you think? I've often thought we'd make great friends. Here.” He passed Chris the phone. “Give me your number, and we'll go out next time we're in town together. We'll find you a man just like Dmitri.” _God no_ , Chris thought, but he typed his number into Victor's phone anyway. As much as he admired and looked up to and, yes, crushed on Victor, he actually liked him, too. 

He doesn't like Georgi, but he serves his purpose. Which, at this moment, is to come copiously into Chris' mouth, one hand clutching the top of the cubicle divider and the other clenched into a white-knuckle fist at his side. Discreetly, Chris pulls a few sheets of paper from the toilet roll and spits. 

“Th-thank you,” Georgi stammers, as Chris tucks him back into his pants. “Do you, I mean, do you want me to...” He stares at the floor, but his meaning is clear enough.

Chris could say yes, he supposes, but he doesn't like to think of himself as desperate. There's an unseemly whiff of desperation about getting a reluctant handjob from a closet case just after winning a silver medal at the Grand Prix Final. He shakes his head. “It's a freebie.” 

“'Freebie'?” Georgi blinks, his forehead creasing suspiciously. 

“You don't owe me anything,” Chris clarifies. 

“Oh. Okay. Um, thanks,” he repeats. He opens the stall door without even peeking to see if the bathroom is empty. _Amateur_ , Chris thinks. He drops the wad of toilet paper into the bowl and flushes, then steps out. 

One of the juniors is washing his hands at the sink. A Canadian boy, although Chris can't remember his name. Something with letters. A.J.? J.R.? He stares at Chris, who flashes him a wink. Rather than blush, or even look away, the boy smirks back. _Have to keep an eye on you_ , Chris thinks, approvingly, and claps the boy on the shoulder as he leaves the bathroom.


	3. Third Year

Seven-tenths of a point. Seven-fucking-tenths of a point. That's the sliver of a margin by which Chris misses defending his silver medal.

Another skater might have been devastated beyond recovery, but, after a moment's disappointment, Chris rallies. He still has bronze, which is nothing to sneer at, and anyway, a good party can raise anyone's spirits. Chris is determined to have a great, spirit-raising time at the GPF banquet, if only he can get Victor down there before old Yakov notices he's late. 

“Victor, come on.” Chris bangs on the door, yet again. Yet again, there's no answer. “If you don't get your sweet ass to the banquet, darling, Yakov's going to have your balls for a keychain.” Chris assumes so, anyway. He doesn't know Yakov personally, but the man's perpetually scowling face reminds him of a fairy tale villain. Chris can easily imagine Yakov locking Victor in a tower if he doesn't fulfill the glad-handing banquet duties of the GPF gold medalist, and that would be a shame. Victor is far too beautiful to be denied to the world. 

“Victor, I'm serious,” Chris tries to sound firm. With Victor, it's a lost cause. “Just tell me why you're so upset...”

“Why I'm so upset?” Suddenly, the door flies open. Victor is half-dressed, his trousers hanging open and his shirt unbuttoned. “I'll tell you why I'm so upset.” His pretty face is flushed, and he sways a little, frowning as he obviously tries to focus on Chris. He seems to be failing. 

Chris grins. “Are you wasted already?”

“Wasted!” Victor repeats, like that's a revelation. “Yes, Chris! That's exactly what I am. Wasted. And so are you. Wasted on stupid fucking men who don't appreciate us.” 

“So this is about Other Chris.” 

Other Chris, so-called because Chris Giacometti got there first, is Victor's boyfriend Chris Williams. He's a British ice dancer with a German partner who skates out of Berlin. He and Victor have been together all of two months, and in that time, Victor has suffered more emotional ups and downs than an entire Grand Prix season. Chris has been there through it all, sending comforting text messages and reassuring emojis and listening, half-asleep, as Victor sobs his way through middle-of-the-night Skype calls about Other Chris' many, many shortcomings as a boyfriend. In Chris' professional opinion, Victor should have kicked his ass to the curb weeks ago. Victor, for some reason, begs to differ. 

Or he has, up until now. Chris steps inside, shutting the door behind him. The room is a disaster. The contents of Victor's suitcase have exploded across the bed, the bureau and the floor. A mostly-empty bottle of vodka stands on the bedside table, Victor's gold medal looped around it. “Tell me all about it, darling,” Chris says, as he works on buttoning Victor's shirt. 

The story is long and convoluted. Chris can't follow all of it, but it seems to involve Other Chris breaking the carefully negotiated terms of his “open relationship” with Victor, a relationship Victor never wanted to open in the first place, and also going to an acquaintance's twenty-first birthday party in Ibiza instead of coming here to cheer on Victor. Chris listens, murmuring sympathetically as he ties Victor's tie. 

“But it doesn't matter,” Victor says, straightening up. His eyes are red, presumably from alcohol or crying, and a single clear droplet runs from his nose. Chris pulls his handkerchief, carefully selected to coordinate with both his suit and the colour of his eyes, out of his top pocket and wipes his friend's face. “It doesn't matter,” Victor repeats. “I don't need anyone. Neither of us do. You and me are the best skaters in the world.”

“Best and third-best,” Chris reminds him. A Norwegian skater, Aleksander Olsen, came between them this year. Olsen is older, at the very end of a career that's never reached these heights before. Nevertheless, he's handsome enough that Chris wouldn't mind having the guy between him and Victor in other ways, too. 

“We don't need anyone else,” Victor repeats. “We're better off on our own.” 

“Probably.” Chris hasn't been any luckier than Victor when it comes to men. Online hookups are risky now that Chris has some amount of fame, and training doesn't leave him much time for anything else. He had, in fact, been so desperate that he'd nearly cornered Georgi in the bathroom at the Rostelecom Cup, but managed to maintain his dignity. 

Victor is more sensitive, more romantic. He doesn't just want sex, he wants true love. Chris knows that, just as surely as he knows that love's not him. He doesn't mind. Victor is a good friend. Chris doesn't bemoan what will never happen, he just wishes there was something he could do to help Victor get what he wants. 

Well, he's always been able to help with one thing. “Want me to jerk you off?” Chris offers. “But then we absolutely have to get out of here.” 

Victor grunts something that might be agreement. In any case, he doesn't move away when Chris cups his cock through his pants, and an experimental squeeze earns a twitch in response. One of Victor's arms comes up around Chris' shoulders, hugging him close, while the other works at Chris' fly. “You're a great friend,” Victor murmurs, as his long, cool fingers wrap around Chris' dick. Chris sighs contentedly and works his hand briskly around Victor, the way he likes. When Victor comes, he makes a breathy little moan that's just enough to push Chris over the edge. 

“You know,” Victor says, thoughtfully, as Chris cleans them both up. If they hurry, they should be able to get to the banquet just before people—meaning Yakov—start to wonder where they are. “You should have got the silver.” 

“I lost,” Chris reminds him. He fastens Victor's fly and makes sure to pocket Victor's key card before they leave the room. He doesn't quite trust Victor to hang onto it himself. 

“But you should have won,” Victor insists, as they head down the hall. “You're superior to Olsen in almost every way. It was the triple Lutz that let you down. Come to St. Petersburg during the off-season, we'll work on it together.”

Chris laughs. “What, you want to coach me?” Chris had no idea Victor harboured those kinds of aspirations. Certainly not now, when he's still in the prime of his own skating career.

“Think about it,” Victor says. Chris will think of it, as the kind offer of a drunken friend who can't possibly mean it. 

“Come on.” The elevator door slides open. Linking their arms, Chris pulls Victor inside. “And try not to puke on anybody, all right? At least not anybody important. Or hot.” The door slides shut and Chris pushes the button for the banquet hall.


	4. Fourth Year

Chris doesn't know where the stripper pole came from. Some people seem to think he brought it, which would have been brilliant, but he didn't. He is definitely using it to its full advantage, though, peeling down to his underwear so everyone can see the play of his gorgeous muscles beneath his toned and tanned skin as he wraps himself sensuously around the pole. 

The Japanese guy is pretty sensuous, too. Yuuri? Is that his name? Chris might remember if he was sober, but right now, he's the complete opposite. He's not alone. Even Yakov seems hammered, hunched possessively over a bottle of vodka telling Celestino some story about his ex-wife, probably. Chris can't hear, but Yakov seems tearful, and Celestino's looking at his watch. 

Possibly-Yuuri contorts around the pole, his strength holding him well above the ground as he bends into one shape after another. Chris hoots and applauds. When Yuuri gets off, or rather stumbles off, he picks himself right up and immediately challenges the junior champion, a sullen-looking Russian, to a dance-off. Chris watches them gleefully, cheering for Yuuri, of course. This guy is a blast. _It's a shame he finished last_ , Chris thinks, _but hopefully he'll hang around for another season._ Now that Chris knows Yuuri's this much fun, he'll be inviting him to every party. 

Yuuri wins the dance-off. The Russian, another Yuri it seems, stalks off glowering. With the show over, Chris jumps back on the pole. It's been too long since he's played with one. Now that he's got his own house, a little place near his rink in Lausanne, maybe he can install something like this. In the living room, perhaps? Or the bedroom? 

As Chris considers the idea, spreading his legs then twining them back around the pole, he glances around the room. The Japanese Yuuri has started grinding on Victor, who is as red-faced as a virgin at an orgy. _Good for them_ , Chris thinks, pleased. Victor's been single for nearly a year, since he finally broke it off for good with the awful Other Chris. He needs to get laid, badly. Actually, Chris wouldn't mind getting laid himself, now that he thinks about it. If the opportunity should happen to arise. 

Chris stays on the pole until his need for another drink outweighs his need to endow his beautiful body on the crowd. He hops off and walks barefoot over to the bar. Before he gets there, he detours over to Victor. An extremely dishevelled Yuuri is on his knees, his arms wrapped around Victor's legs and his face buried in Victor's thighs. 

Chris smirks. “Having a good night, honey?” 

“He needs to get upstairs.” 

“Looks like you both do.”

“Chris!” Victor snaps, so suddenly Chris blinks in surprise. “He's drunk,” Victor adds, more gently. 

“You don't say.” Yuuri seems to be weeping into Victor's pants. “We all are, though. And that's never stopped you before.” 

“He doesn't...” Victor blinks his big eyes. “He doesn't want me. Not like that.” Before Chris can point out the obvious—the obvious being that Yuuri is now bent double, kissing the top of Victor's shoes—Victor calls, “Phichit!”

The Thai skater looks cuter than ever, and Chris has always thought he was pretty damn cute. Chris leans casually on the nearest table, flexing his muscular arms while simultaneously, and with great subtlety, pushing his scantily clad crotch in Phichit's direction. Phichit clears his throat and turns away. 

“Would you please take Yuuri to his room?” Victor bends down and detaches Yuuri from his legs. Yuuri's glasses are pushed up onto his forehead, and he's wearing his tie like he's auditioning for "Rambo on Ice."

“No!” Yuuri sobs pitiably. “Victor, I need you...” 

Victor swallows hard, but ignores him. “Please. Make sure he's all right.” 

“I will,” Phichit promises, solemnly. It's so sweet, it warms Chris' heart. Phichit wraps an arm around Yuuri's middle, putting Yuuri's arm over his shoulders. Yuuri slumps against him. He can't be light, but Phichit doesn't wobble. 

“Then come back down, honey,” Chris adds. “I'd love to swap stories about... _Bangkok_.” No harm in trying, right? 

When they've gone, Victor turns to Chris. “Yuuri wants me to be his coach.”

“In the art of love?” 

Victor sighs. Chris can't tell if it's directed at him or at Yuuri. Probably Yuuri. “In the art of figure skating.” 

“Oh.” Then Chris has no further interest in this conversation. “Come on, let's grab another drink. And I haven't seen you on the pole yet, by the way.” 

Victor shakes his head. “I'm going to bed.” 

So that's the plan. Victor is getting Phichit to take Yuuri upstairs, so Victor can then go to Yuuri's room without looking obvious. Genius, although no more than Chris should have expected from the man who, even now, travels with a huge bottle of lube and an entire box of condoms. “So that's what you meant when you...”

“Alone,” Victor adds. Chris frowns. “Good night, Chris.” 

“Are you sure you're really Victor?” Chris calls. The retreating form doesn't reply. Chris doesn't follow him. He'll ask about it in the morning, if he remembers. 

Chris heads back to the bar and climbs, a little unsteadily, onto a stool. The bartender, a pretty young woman who is, unfortunately, not at all Chris' type, slides him a drink, and he winks at her. Then, he stifles a yawn. He's tired, too, but it's only...the clock on the wall swims in front of his eyes, but it looks like something between three and four in the morning. Still early. 

For a while, Chris drinks and watches the action on the pole. Mila Babicheva gets up, wearing nothing but her lacy bra and a truly eye-popping white thong. She executes a perfect headstand, her legs falling open into a flawless split. As Chris purses his lips to whistle, a small voice says, “Would you pose for a selfie with me?”

Chris grins. He can't help himself. He swivels the stool and reaches out, yanking Phichit onto his lap. Phichit yelps, but he doesn't try to get up. As Phichit snaps the picture, Chris presses a kiss to his lusciously smooth cheek. “I'll be sure to repost that one, honey,” Chris murmurs, his arm around Phichit's waist. Without letting go, he signals the bartender for two more drinks.


	5. Fifth Year

For the first time, Chris has a date to the GPF banquet. 

Markus is only his third actual boyfriend, if “boyfriend” is defined as someone you spend time with clothed as well as naked. He's the head choreographer for the Swiss team. Chris met him at an off-season event in Berlin, and took great pleasure in immediately stealing him away from Victor's ex Chris Williams and the rest of the Germans. 

Markus is handsome, and lovable, and an excellent fuck. Chris is head over heels for him, which, is very fortunate indeed. If he'd had to spend the banquet alone, watching Victor and Yuuri drowning in each other's eyes, Chris probably would have thrown up. Or made some initially enjoyable but ultimately regrettable life choice, like proposing a three-way. 

“Can I get you another drink, darling?” Markus asks, ever-attentive. 

“Thank you, darling.” Chris holds up his face. Markus kisses him, and heads to the bar. 

The banquet is a sedate affair. Apparently, last year's stripper pole incident, and the flurry of compromising pictures that followed it, were not appreciated by the ISU. This year, they're under strict instructions to drink sparingly, enjoy themselves with dignity, and disperse by midnight. Chris isn't worried. That just means there will be an even better after-party in somebody's room. 

“Congratulations on your performance, Chris.” 

Chris turns to smile at Phichit. “You're the one who deserves the congratulations, honey.” It's true. For a man nearing the end of his career like Chris, fifth place is nothing to shout about. For a young skater like Phichit, with many years ahead of him, just being at the GPF two years in a row is an accomplishment. 

“I can't believe how J.J. came back like that.” Phichit looks over to where J.J. is flashing his silly hand signs at a group of starstruck juniors, his fiancée devotedly by his side. _She's too good for him_ , Chris thinks. _I wonder how long it will take her to realize it?_ “And Yuuri was out-of-this-world.” Phichit's tone becomes wistful. 

Chris turns to look at him. They fooled around a little last year, but Phichit was too worried about Yuuri to really get into it. Phichit left, finally, to check on his friend, and Chris ended up crawling into the comfortable familiarity of Victor's bed. Or he'd tried to, anyway. According to Victor, Chris had passed out cold on the carpet as soon as Victor let him in. “Are you all right, honey?” 

“Yes!” Phichit's answer is too quick. “I am. I'm so happy for him.” Chris assumes he means Yuuri, currently sitting on Victor's lap sucking prawn juice from Victor's fingers in a way that would have been hopelessly tacky if it was anyone else. With them, it seems charming, even sweet. Chris wishes he knew how they get away with it. At the same time, he knows he himself could never pull it off. “They'll be getting married soon, I think,” Phichit adds. 

Emotions aren't Chris' strong point. Double entendres and innuendo are. He's trying to think of something, some dirty joke that will clear the wistful look from Phichit's face, when Markus returns. “Hello,” he says, smoothly reaching for Phichit's hand as he deposits Chris' drink on the table. “Markus Weissmueller.” 

Markus remembers Phichit's programs, both short and free, in great detail. He's that kind of guy. He talks to Phichit about the choreography, then Markus and Chris pose while Phichit snaps a picture. It pops up on Instagram the moment Phichit walks away. Chris reposts it with a heart-eyes emoji.

The official banquet shuts down at midnight. As Chris anticipated, that just means the party's moving to Mila Babicheva's room. As they head for the elevators, though, Markus says, “I feel like going for a walk, do you?” 

Not really. Chris feels like getting upstairs and getting some real fun going, but he smiles. “All right,” he says, and Markus takes his arm. 

Barcelona is beautiful at night. It's chilly, a little, but compared to December in Lausanne, it's practically balmy. Marks draws him close, keeping Chris warm as they meander down the street. When they reach the lovely stone church at the end, a medieval masterpiece nestled snugly amid towering glass hotels and highrises, Markus stops. 

“Chris.”

“Yes, darling?” 

Of all the things Chris could have expected Markus to do—kiss him, ask if he was cold, offer to go back to the hotel and rejoin the party like Chris wanted to—dropping to one knee was not on the list. It was so far off the list, in fact, that Chris couldn't have seen it with a telescope. He stands, dumbstruck for what has to be the very first time in his life, as Markus kneels and looks up at him. “Chris,” he repeats. Markus' cheeks are a little pink, his voice unsteady. He clears his throat and tries again. “Chris I love you. Will you marry me?” 

Chris feels like he's been slapped in the face. He would have preferred that, in fact, because at least that's something with which he has experience. He gapes as Markus stares. Chris has to say something, he knows that, but he has no idea what. “We couldn't get married in Switzerland,” is what comes out. It's not the stupidest thing he could have said, but it not far off. Chris winces inwardly as Markus blinks in surprise.

“I...I know. But we could have a registered partnership. I guess...I guess that's what I meant.” 

“Right.” Chris swallows around the lump that's formed in his throat. 

“Do you...” Markus' eyebrows draw together. “I mean, I'm not sure what your answer is.”

Neither is Chris. A flash of annoyance passes through him. Annoyance at himself, for not wanting to leap into Markus' arms with cries of, “Yes, yes, a thousand times yes!” as he is sure Victor will do when Yuuri finally gets around to actually making a proposal, or vice versa. Annoyance at Markus, for putting him in this uncomfortable position. Annoyance at the world in general, for making marriage into a sword of Damocles hanging over everyone's heads, rather than just letting people have a good time together. 

“I love you,” Chris says, finally. That's true. “But, Markus, darling, I'm not ready for that.” Would he ever be? Chris can't imagine it. 

“Oh.” 

The look of disappointment on Markus' face makes Chris want to cry. “But I do love you,” he repeats, a touch desperately. Markus stands up, his knee cracking. “Let's go back to the hotel,” Chris suggests. “Forget the party. I'd much rather have some private fun. Wouldn't you?”

“All right.” Markus sounds dazed. Chris takes his hand, interlacing their fingers. He presses his lips to Markus' cheek, but Markus doesn't react, and Chris knows it's too late. This one moment has ruined everything between them. 

When they get back to the hotel, they find Victor and Yuuri making out like teenagers in front of the elevators. It takes all of Chris' self-control, and a lot of his considerable love for Victor, not to shove them into the potted plants.


	6. Sixth Year

Chris isn't the kind of smug douche who makes guys fuck him while he wears his medals. Well, not usually. But he doesn't usually win gold, either. 

“Fuck, Michele, that's it.” Chris groans ecstatically. His GPF gold medal slaps against his bare, sweat-slicked chest as Michele Crispino pounds into him from behind. Mickey's technique leaves something to be desired, but his cock is surprisingly large, and it sends a jolt of pure pleasure through Chris with every rough stroke. 

Chris' long program was the skate of a lifetime, there's no denying it, but many factors came together to give him his long-awaited win. An ill-timed case of puberty knocked Yuri Plisentsky down to fifth place. An under-rotated quad Lutz in the free skate landed Yuuri Katsuki in third. A season of distraction and an uncharacteristic stumble in the short program put Victor in second. Chris doesn't care. All competitions are made up of winners and losers and finally, _finally_ it's his chance to win. 

“Harder,” Chris demands, as Mickey's pace slackens. He curls a hand around Chris' hip, his fingers pressing bruises into Chris' skin. Mickey thrusts once, twice, but he seems distracted. “You'd better not be thinking about your fucking sister while you rail me, Michele,” Chris snaps, in English because it sounds harsher than in Italian.

“I'm not!” That sounds suspiciously like a lie. “It's just, do you think she's doing this with Emil? Because I really don't like the idea of him...” Chris tunes him out. He's close, anyway. Pushing back, Chris he fucks himself on Mickey's cock, jerking himself with his own hand, until he feels his balls tighten. He comes, his heart racing and his free hand on his medal. Mickey follows him over the edge, filling the condom with a strangled cry. Chris resolves never to ask what Mickey was imagining at that moment. He is one hundred percent sure he doesn't want to know. 

He doesn't invite his guest to stay afterward, and Michele doesn't hang around. He fucks off as soon as he's dressed, probably to go pussy-block poor Sara yet again, and leaves Chris lounging on his bed alone.

Chris is tired, but he doesn't want to sleep. In the morning, it's back to work as he flies to rehearsals for the Stars on Ice tour which will take him through Europe and Asia during the off-season. This day will be just another memory, and Chris doesn't want to let go that fast. He wants to savour it just a little longer. He's waited his whole career for it. 

Normally, Chris would go and find Victor, but he knows where Victor is, and he knows he would not be welcome. Victor and Yuuri have calmed down, a little. Another year of living and training together has cooled the urgency of their love, but it's still as present as ever. They left the banquet with their arms draped around each other's waists, obviously headed for a private party to which Chris and the others are not invited. Chris is happy for them. That's what Victor's always wanted. 

Chris gets up and grabs a towel from the bathroom. A few laps in the hotel pool, followed by a soak in the whirlpool, is just what he needs. He leaves the medal in his room—again, not a smug douche—but he thinks about how he could tastefully get an image of it tattooed on his bicep, or maybe his chest, as he takes the elevator down to the pool. 

The whirlpool is already occupied. Chris can see that as soon as he steps onto the pool deck, although a wooden panel conceals him from the occupants' view. Otabek Altin and Yuri Plisetsky sit together on one side of the hot tub, talking in Russian. 

Chris sighs. Altin always looks like he has something unenjoyable up his ass, and Plisetsky's a little bitch at the best of times. He's been worse since his balls dropped. After his disastrous free skate, he stumbled off the ice in tears, flipped off the reporters and left the rink before the final results were even announced. 

Still, Chris has never let poor company ruin a party. He kicks off his flip flops and is about to jump out from behind the panel when Altin says a word Chris knows. Красивый. _Krasivyy._ Beautiful. Victor taught Chris that one when Chris wanted to flirt with a particularly sexy Aeroflot flight attendant. It worked, and Chris never forgot the word, or the man. His dick was one of the best Chris has experienced. Top ten, at least. 

Keeping quiet, Chris peeks around the wooden panel. His mouth falls open in gleeful surprise when he sees Altin and Plisetsky kissing. Not chastely, or in a commiserating, “sorry we came in fifth and sixth in a competition of six people” sort of way, but in a desperate, panting “fuck me right here in this hotel hot tub” sort of way. And it doesn't look like it's their first time doing it. 

Chris can barely contain himself. Forget winning the gold medal. This is gold-level...no _platinum_ level gossip. He has to share it. Never mind Victor's privacy. He can fuck Yuuri whenever he wants, they live together. This is urgent news. 

Slipping his flip flops back on, Chris takes one last glance. Plisetsky has moved onto Altin's lap, his arms around Altin's neck, burying his face in the other man's shoulder. Altin's hands are beneath the water and Chris wonders happily if they're actually naked. He considers stepping out from his hiding place, just to see their reaction, but he restrains himself. They're young. It's their right to have ill-considered sex in semi-public places, just as it's Chris' right to spread the gossip far and wide. 

_But is it?_ As the elevator carries Chris back upstairs, he stops and thinks. Victor considers himself a big brother to Yuri, maybe even a father figure. Victor's strange that way. What will he do if he finds out his little protégé has a boyfriend, or even a fuck buddy? It would be supremely hypocritical of him to be upset by it. Victor was far from a virgin at Plisetsky's age, but Chris knows that people are nothing if not hypocritical, especially when it comes to sex. Himself excluded, of course. 

Plisetsky may be a bitch, but Yakov and Lilia work him like a dog. Chris has seen them at it. They're relentless even now, as Yuri struggles to get used to a new body. It's for his own good, probably. He's got a lot more gold medals than Chris does, and he's a decade younger. But that doesn't mean Yuri doesn't deserve a life outside of skating. He deserves Altin, if that's who he wants. And they deserve to keep their secrets. 

_You're a good man, Christophe Giacometti_ , Chris thinks, as he bypasses Victor and Yuuri's door. _A saint._

When he gets back to his room, Chris slips his gold medal back around his neck and picks up the room service menu. Gold medal winners, Chris decides, deserve wine. Saints deserve cake. And he happens to be both.


	7. Seventh Year/Epilogue

In the last year of his career, Chris doesn't qualify for the Grand Prix Final.

It was a calculated risk. One more year can always be one year too many, but Chris really felt he had another go left in him. It's close. He finishes the season, and his career, in seventh place, just five points out of the last qualifying spot.

He doesn't cry about it. Well, not much. Four Grand Prix medals, one of them gold, two World Championship medals, an Olympic bronze medal. You can't fault a career like that. Chris hangs up his skates and books his self-congratulatory retirement trip to Bali. Then, just three weeks before the GPF, he gets a text from his former coach.

_J.J. Leroy went snowboarding in Whistler._

Chris doesn't subscribe to the “Where in the World is King J.J.?” daily newsletter. Not anymore. He waits for the rest of the message. _Compound fracture of the left leg. He'll be out for weeks._

 _Dumbass_ , Chris replies, a fraction of a second before his brain catches up with his fingers. J.J. Leroy finished the season in third place. J.J. Leroy was set to go to the Grand Prix Final. The phone slips out of his hands and Chris has to scrabble on the floor to pick it up. _I'll be at the rink in ten minutes_ , Chris writes.

 _It's not over_ , his coach texts back. Chris grins. No, it's not.

He doesn't finish as well as he would like, but fourth place, when he hadn't expected to be there at all, seems like a gift Chris would be an asshole to complain about. And there's a nice symmetry to it. At twenty-one, in his very first Grand Prix Final, he finished fourth. At twenty-eight, in his very last Grand Prix Final, he does as well.

That's about the only thing that's the same. Nowadays, Chris is definitely the senior on the circuit. His friends, Victor and Yuuri and Phichit, even Georgi Popovich and Michele Campanelli, are gone, replaced by fresh faces Chris barely recognizes.

For the first time ever, Chris leaves the GPF banquet while it's still in full swing. As he heads out the door, he runs into Yuri Plisetsky, with another gold medal around his neck and his hand in Otabek Altin's. Yuri is tall and slender now, like an exotic tree. He's growing into his mature body nicely, but he evokes no sense of lust in Chris. _Too young_ , Chris thinks sadly, and if that's not a sign of getting old, then what is?

“Congratulations,” Chris says, as they pass. Yuri glances up. “On everything.” He looks meaningfully at Altin. Yuri blushes and pushes past him. Otabek meets his eye, nods, and lets Yuri pull him into the ballroom.

“When's the wedding, princess?” A distinctive voice hoots, as Yuri and Otabek step inside, hand-in hand. Chris glances over his shoulder. “I think you can pull off a white dress, _ma chatte_. Or is that going to be his job?” Yuri scowls murderously, but doesn't knock J.J.'s crutches out from under him, so Chris supposes that's his coming out announcement. Good for him, he thinks, smiling to himself like an old man. I wish them the best.

“Excuse me? Sorry to bother you, but are you Christophe Giacometti?”

It's not the words that surprise him. Even now Chris hears them a dozen times a day. But the language, Schweizerdeutch, is unexpected. Swiss German isn't exactly a lingua franca in the skating world, or any world. It's the language of his grandmother. Chris smiles, already in a good mood when he turns to face the man behind him.

He's short and chubby, a few years older than Chris, with thick glasses. His hairline is receding, and he's wearing a brown tweed suit so ugly, Chris' eyes water just looking at it.

“Would you like a picture?” Chris offers.

The man blinks owlishly. “Um, sorry, I, um, I'm really in a rush. I just wanted to say...” Chris readies himself for compliments on his latest performance, or perhaps his career in general. “I really liked that interview you gave on SRG. About the psychology of top athletes.” Chris opens his mouth, then shuts it again. It was a radio interview in French, and the reporter blindsided him with questions that delved far deeper than Chris' usual talk about his favourite types of music or how he picked his costumes. He'd felt out of his depth, and changed the subject as soon as he could. “That's what I do,” the man goes on. “I'm a psychologist. I'm here for a conference, actually. I'd like to talk about your ideas more, if you ever have time. By email, or Skype, or anything.”

“What's your name?”

“Oh. Right. Right, sorry.” The man produces an actual business card. Chris doesn't think he's ever received one before. Andreas Buchwalder, Psychologe, followed by a mobile number and an address in Lausanne.

“Nice to meet you, Andreas.”

“Yes.” Andreas smiles. “You, too, Mr. Giacometti.” He nods, a weird little bow, and is gone. Strange, Chris thinks. He hesitates, for a moment, but rather than drop the card into the rubbish bin beside him, he slips it into his jacket pocket.

***

Yuuri hates parties. He would put that down to being thirty-two years old and past it all, but he didn't even like them when he was younger.

“Don't be silly, dearest,” Victor coos, whenever Yuuri mentions that. “You ensnared me with your siren song at that GPF banquet years ago.”

“It doesn't count if I can't remember,” Yuuri replies, but the thought of that lost banquet makes Yuuri squirm, and not in a good way.

Weddings aren't quite as bad as other parties. They remind Yuuri of his own wedding, when he and Victor pledged their love in a romantic beach ceremony that could have been right out of Yuuri's adolescent dreams, if he'd ever dared to dream that big. Still, Yuuri fiddles with his phone as they wait for the newlywed couple to make their entrance. “Do you think I should text my mother?” He asks, again.

Victor takes a long drink from what is definitely not his first martini. “She's fine.”

“But if Kaito doesn't get a snack before bed, he'll be up at four o'clock.”

“She knows that.”

“But...”

Victor raises a hand. “Your mother can handle children, my love. Anyway, she has Mari to help.”

True. Mari yelped with joy when she heard Yuuri and Victor were going away for a wedding. Rather, she had yelped with joy when she heard who, exactly, was getting married. “I can't believe he of all people is tying the knot,” she declared happily, her hand on her girlfriend's back as Minako doubled over with laughter. “Can you live stream it? Or better yet, take me along in your suitcase?”

But Victor's right. He's as protective and loving of their little son Kaito as Yuuri is—Victor has a phone full of pictures he'll show to strangers on the subway, at cafes, and in grocery store queues at the slightest provocation, or even with no provocation at all—and it's true, Yuuri's mother can look after the boy for three days without trouble. Yuuri's about to text her anyway when the ballroom door flies open and the newly married couple appears.

Despite Victor's advice, suggestions, and then pleas to “dress appropriately”, Yurio is wearing a leopard-print jacket over a pair of tight black jeans, a massive diamond ring on his hand. Otabek's dark suit is more conservative, his ring a simple gold band, but they look good together. There's an expression of complete and utter joy on Otabek's face, unlike anything Yuuri's ever seen on the man. Yuuri can't help but smile, too. He knows how that feels.

When Yurio pulls his husband in for a kiss, a cheer goes up, started by one of Otabek's apparently many loud and exuberant brothers. Yuuri claps along, his polite enthusiasm diminishing as the kiss goes on, and on, and on. Yuuri can see tongues. He and Victor were never that...graphic, were they?

Yurio grabs Otabek's ass with both hands, and Yuuri averts his eyes. They land on Yakov and Lilia, sitting together with matching looks of dour approval on their faces. Victor had cried when he heard they were getting back together. "It's like Mummy and Daddy are getting remarried," he said, and while Yuuri had long suspected that was how Victor and Yurio felt about their coaches, it was strangely heartwarming to have it confirmed that way. 

Moving on, Yuuri's glance passes to Chris Giacometti and his boyfriend Andreas, off in the corner, seemingly in a world of their own.

They're an odd couple, but they seem to work. They've been together seven years, and while Chris claims they're never going to get married, they have a house and a cat and a psychology practice together. That's the strangest part of it, according to Victor. After meeting Andreas, Chris became a certified sports psychologist. “I didn't think anyone could get Chris to go back to school,” he told Yuuri. “It must be true love.” Watching them sitting and whispering to one another, Yuuri can believe it. Yuuri's known Chris a long time, Victor's known him even longer. While he was always having fun, Yuuri doesn't think either of them saw him truly happy until Andreas came along.

A sudden tear comes to Yuuri's eye. He reaches behind his glasses to wipe it.

"What's wrong?" Victor looks alarmed.

"Nothing." Yuuri laughs at himself, at his own sentimentality. "I'm just happy everyone's happy."

It sounds dumb, but Victor smiles, as if he understands. Victor always understands. “Come on, sweetheart.” Victor puts down his glass. His hand slides along Yuuri's arm and pulls him out of his chair. Yurio and Otabek have broken apart, thankfully, although Yurio's hand still rests possessively on Otabek's backside. “Let's party like we don't have bad knees, bad backs and a three-year-old son.”

Yuuri lets himself be dragged onto the dance floor. He hates parties. But, like everything, they're a lot better with Victor around.


End file.
